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E.A.Kimball   •• 


WAYSIDE    FLOWERS. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  O'ER  THE  WAV.     Page  119. 


WAYSIDE  FLOWERS 


BY 

E.  A.   KIMBALL 


PORTLAND,  ME. 

HOYT,    FOGG    &    DONtlAM 

1882 


Copyrighted  by  E.  A.  Kimball,  i88i 


B.  Thurston  &  Co.,  Priitlcrn. 


C  O  N  r  E  N  1  s . 

The  Shady  Side 7 

Mekeimac 9 

Rye  Beacu 11 

Sabbath  Bells        13 

Fkizzles 15 

Evening .18 

Coming 20 

The  Cakes  of  the  Woki.d .22 

AVhen  Blessings  Fail 24 

The  Ikon  Lance 25 

Pockets 28 

No  Fketting  in  Heaven 30 

A  MOTIIKU'S    riiAYKK 32 

Mv  Favokites 34 

ON  SiAi;  Island 36 

8 


4  CONTENTS. 

In  the  Woods 38 

The  Cardinal  Fi.owei! 41 

Harebells "1^ 

That  Cat 45 

September 47 

Freddy 50 

Dead  Leaves 54 

November 56 

Pansy 5S 

Nettles 60 

Sunset 62 

Fourth  of  July,  1875 65 

Violets 67 

To  Whittier  on  His  Seventieth  Birthday    ,        .        .81 

The  Last  Night  of  the  Year 83 

Thanks  to  my  Sabbath  School  Class      .        .        .        .86 

In  October 88 

The  Song  of  the  Sea 92 

If  in  the  Summer  I  should  Die        .....  94 


CONTENTS. 


Decor ATiox  Day      . 

95 

A  TCp.kpsatvE       ..... 

98 

A  Farewell 

101 

The  Message 

103 

Song.    O'er  His  Narrow  Bed 105 

When  the  Nodding  Lilies  Blossom lOB 

A  Reply 109 

LixES  IN  Memory  of  Daisy  Patterson     .        .        .        .111 

A  Medley 114 

Lines  on  a  Fifth  Anniversary 117 

The  Old  House  o'er  the  Way 119 

The  Legacy 124 

The  Guardian  Angel 125 


THE   SHADY   SIDE. 

I  followed  a  little  brook 

Along  its  winding  way, 
Around  by  the  woody  hill, 

One  quiet  Sabbath  day. 
'Twas  winter,  and  here  and  there 

Lay  drifts  of  whitest  snow ; 
And  icicles  from  the  trees 

Hung,  in  a  sparkling  row. 

As  adown  the  mossy  rocks, 

With  careful  steps  I  went. 
By  roots  of  an  aged  tree. 

Tangled,  knotted,  and  bent, 
I  saw  green,  beautiful  ferns. 

Unharmed  by  winter's  blast ; 
On  the  shady  bank  they  grew. 

And  limpid  ripples  passed. 


8  THE  SHADY  SIDE. 

Oh,  ever  along  life's  stream, 

For  ferns,  so  green  and  fair, 
I'll  look  on  the  shady  side. 

Among  the  roots  of  care. 
The  purest  and  sweetest  thoughts 

Spring  from  ashes  of  woe ; 
On  the  shady  bank  of  life, 

The  ferns  and  mosses  grow. 


MERRIMAC. 

O  river,  fair  river! 

Your  waters  free, 
Go  dashing  and  flashing 

Dovi^n  to  the  sea. 

O  river,  calm  river ! 

Peaceful  and  still, 
Now  sliding  and  gliding 

By  vale  and  hill. 

O  river,  true  mirror 
Of  sky  and  earth, 

Collecting,  reflecting, 
Beauty  and  worth. 

O  river,  glad  river ! 

Your  little  waves 
Are  glancing  and  dancing 

By  new  made  graves. 


■^Q  MEBRIMAC. 

O  river,  brave  river! 

You  heed  no  shock; 
Rebounding,  then  rounding 

The  mighty  rock. 

O  river,  wise  river! 

By  town  and  lea 
Flow,  preaching  and  teaching, 

Down  to  the  sea. 


RYE  BEACH. 

Home  of  my  cliildhood!   backward  to  thee 
Memory  wanders.     There  by  the  sea, — 
Lashed  by  its  billows,  that  crash  and  roar, 
Breaking  against  huge  rocks  on  thy  shore. 
Foaming,  and  tossing  its  silver  spray, 
Sighing  and  moaning  by  night  and  da}', 
Dashing  its  sea-weed  on  the  smooth  beach. 
Leaving  its  shells  on  the  sand  to  bleach, 
Catching  the  sunbeams'  luminous  flash, 
Kissed  by  fair  moonbeams,  its  surges  dash ; 
Bearing  the  fisherman's  boat  so  frail. 
And  stately  ships  that  gallantly  sail. 
Singing  a  dirge  for  the  loved  and  lost. 
Far,  far  beneath,  by  its  currents  tost, — 
Lying  in  beauty,  peaceful  and  calm. 
By  gray  stones  walled,  is  many  a  farm 
Fruitful  and  fair ;    no  thistle  or  weed 
Is  ever  allowed  to  run  to  seed. 


11 


12  HYE  BEACH. 

Thy  murmuring  brooks  by  rocks  of  flint, 

Cardinal  flower  and  peppermint, 

The  lovely  ponds  where  white  lilies  blow. 

The  woods  where  spruce  and  lofty  pine  grow, 

The  harbor,  its  boats  and  buzzing  mill. 

The  naked  trunks  on  Breakfast  Hill, 

The  large  hotels  and  cottages  fair. 

The  bathers,  rending  with  shouts  the  air. 

As  a  breaker  strikes  them  unawares. 

Nor  reveres  the  man  of  hoary  hairs. 

For  men  of  sixty,  children  of  nine. 

Come  screaming  out  of  the  drenching  brine. 

The  path  I  trod,  on  my  way  to  school, 

Across  the  marsh,  and  through  pastures  cool, 

By  the  little  yard  where  green  grass  waves 

Above  my  father's  and  mother's  graves ; — 

All,  all  come  back  to  my  mind  to-day, 

And  I  seem  again  a  child  at  play. 

I  see  the  faces  I  used  to  know. 

Like  breath  of  clover,  they  come  and  go. 

Ah !  many  have  passed  from  earth  awa}', 

Thev  travel  no  more  life's  weary  wav. 

Home  of  my  childhood!    dear  unto  me, 

Lashed  by  the  waves  of  the  surging  sea. 


SABBATH    BELLS. 

Borne  on  the  morning  breeze, 

O'er  leafless  trees, 
Comes  sound  of  Sabbath  bells, 

Pealing,  softly  stealing. 
Gone. 

Now,  wafted  loud  and  clear, 
From  steeples  near 

A  hearty  welcome  rings. 
Inviting,  nor  slighting 
One. 

Now  soft,  and  sweet  and  low, 

Like  gentle  flow 
Of  rills,  come  pleasing  chimes, 

Singing,  gladly  ringing 
Praise. 


13 


14  SABBATH  BELLS. 

Now,  like  an  organ  grand 
Or  martial  band, 

The  wondrous  music  swells, 
Resounding,  in  rounding 
Tones. 

Now,  angel  voices  clear 
Methinks  I  hear 

Around  the  Heav'nly  throne. 
Raising  anthems,  praising 
God. 

Ring,  ye  joyful  bells,  ring. 
Your  pean  sing 

Whene'er  my  weary  soul 
Receding,  goes  speeding 
Home. 


FRIZZLES. 

As  I  go  up  and  down  the  street, 
I  notice  ladies  that  I  meet 

Wear  frizzles. 

Here  comes  a  woman  short  and  fat, 
From  underneath  her  black  straw  hat. 

Hang  frizzles. 

And  just  behind  her,  tall  and  lean, 
A  school-girl  comes,  just  sweet  sixteen, 

With  frizzles. 

And  now,  a  pretty  mincing  belle ; 
Soft,  fickle ;    they  become  her  well, 

Those  frizzles. 

One,  stately,  pure,  is  passing  now ; 
Why  will  she  wear  on  that  true  brow 

False  frizzles  ? 

IS 


16  FBIZZLES. 

And  one  whose  cheeks  have  lost  their  tint, 
Is  commg,  in  an  eight-cent  print 

And  frizzles. 

A  costly  silk  now  rustles  by, 
A  velvet  cloak  and  crimson  tie, 

And  frizzles. 

Old  ladies,  girls,  the  plain,  the  fair. 
With  ev'ry  hue  and  shade  of  hair 

Have  frizzles. 

No  matter  whether  round  or  thin, 
To  go  without  must  be  a  sin  ! 

No  frizzles? 

I  think  the  men  might  wear  them  too. 
When  holding  plough*  or  making  shoe. 

Those  frizzles. 

Imagine  Rev'rend  Beecher  Burch, 
Next  Sabbath  in  his  spacious  church, 

In  frizzles ! 


FRIZZLES.  17 

The  Doctor  driving  in  his  sriar,  * 

» 

And  on  his  head  a  elums}^  wig 

Of  frizzles. 

The  phigue  has  spread  so  far  and  wide, 
I  fear  it  always  will  abide; 

The  frizzles. 

Unless  be  found  some  wondrous  charm 
In  fashion-plates,  a  healing  balm 

For  frizzles. 


EVENING. 

Oh,  so  soft,  yet  so  briglit, 
This  peaceful  moonlight, 

Rol)ing  earth  in  silver  sheen! 
Through  invisible  air, 
Pnre,  wondronsly  fair, 

The  glistening  moonbeams  stream. 

And  so  fleecy  and  white, 
So  airy  and  light, 

Are  the  graceful  clouds  at  play, 
As  between  earth  and  sky 
They  slowly  go  by 

And  daintily  float  aw^ay. 

And  the  feathery  snow 
On  the  ground  below 

Is  a  garment  fresh  and  clean. 
On  the  hill,  in  the  lane, 


18 


EVENING.  19 

Without  spot  or  stain, 

Like  an  angel's  robe,  I  ween. 

And  so  softly  the  breeze 
Trills  through  the  bare  trees, 

The  music  comes  sweet  and  low. 
As  tall,  solemn,  they  stand, 
And  with  trembling  hand, 

Their  shadows  write  on  the  snow. 

Wafted  now  to  my  ear, 
In  tones  rich  and  clear. 

Are  hymns  from  the  praying  band. 
As  together  they  sing. 
And  praise  the  Great  King 

Who  ruleth  o'er  sea  and  land. 

And  my  soul  seems  to  rise 
In  l)liss  to  the  skies, 

As  they  sing  the  songs  I  love. 
I>ut  the  sweet  voices  cease, 
And  a  heav'nly  peace 

Fills  all  my  heart  from  above. 


COMING. 

She  is  coming,  I  know, 
The  breeze  tokl  me  so. 

As  beneath  an  oak  I  sat, 
And  the  faded  brown   leaves 
Dropped  down  from  the  trees, 

And  spread  for  my  feet  a  mat. 

She  is  coming,  I  know. 
The  brook  tokl  me  so, 

And  onward  its  bubbles  glanced 
As  it  rippled  along 
It  sang  a  glad  song. 

And  over  its  pebbles  danced. 

She  is  coming,  I  know. 
The  woodclmck  said  so, 

And  into  his  hole  he  went, 
'Neath  the  roots  of  a  tree, 


•-» 


20 


COMING.  fl 

O,  merry  was  lie, 

And  joy  to  my  heart  he  sent. 

She  is  coming,  I  know, 
The  robin  said  so, 

And  caroled  his  sweetest  tune  ; 
Then  the  wild  duck  flew  by. 
And  a  butterfly 

Came  out  to  see  if  'twas  June. 

Slie  is  coming,  I  know ! 
Blow,  warm  breezes,  blow. 

Rain  down  soft-falling  showers ! 
O,  make  haste,  lovely  Spring, 
Your  bobolinks  bringf. 

And  deck  the  fields  with  flowers. 


THE  CARES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Alone,  at  close  of  summer  day, 
Alone  she  knelt  in  her  room  to  pray. 
The  flesh  was  weak,  her  heart  was  sad. 
Her  soul  in  robe  of  darkness  was  clad. 

All  day  the  weary,  toiling  wife 
Had  borne  the  burden  of  busy  life ; 
And  rough  the  path  her  feet  liad  trod, — 
Rocks,  thorns,  tangled  roots,  uneven  sod. 

With  tearful  eyes  she  knelt  to  pray. 

Alone  at  close  of  the  toilsome  day ; 

And  as  she  knelt,  a  voice  she  heard, 

A  calm  voice  whispered,  "  They  choke  tlie  word. 

'  The  cares  of  earth,  like  thistles,  spring 
Among  the  wheat,  and  but  sorrow  bring. 
It  cannot  grow  'mong  noxious  weeds. 
And  bear  ripe  fruit,  Christian  words  and    deeds. 

22 


THE  CABES  OF  THE   WORLD.  28 

"My  erring  child  I  long  have  sought; 
Long,    long   have    you    spent   your   strength    for 

naught ; 
I  made  you  feel  the  chast'ning  rod, 
For  the  world  was  crowding  out  your  God. 

"  Throw  off,  my  child,  that  load  of  care, 

No  longer  those  heavy  burdens  bear." 
"  Father,  forgive  !  "    she  humbly  cried, 
"  Forgive  the  sins  of  Thy  erring  child ! 

"  I  boAV  submissive,  kiss  the  rod. 
Lay  down  my  burdens,  take  back  my  God. 
Come,  peaceful  Spirit,  from  above, 
O,  let  me  feel  Thy  pardoning  love ! 

"  0,  cleanse  my  heart  from  ev'ry  sin, 
And  make  me  whiter  than  snow,  within."' 
The  Father  heard  her  earnest  cry. 
He  answered  the  penitential  sigh. 

He  bade  her,    "•  Go,  and  sin  no  more. 
But  onward  press  to  the  heav'nly  shore. 
Let  not  earth's  thistles  choke  the  right. 
My  yoke  is  easy,  my  burden  light." 


WHEN  BLESSINGS  FAIL. 

When  blessings  fail,  life,  like  a  tree 
When  stript  of  leaves,  may  seem  to    be 

At  first,  devoid  of  beauty; 
But  much  of  beauty  still  remains, 
If  we  but  smile  at  little  pains, 

And  bravely  do  our  duty. 


24 


THE  "IRON  LANCE." 

Written  after  reading  "Rambles  in  Martinique,"   Harper's 
Magazine  for  January,  1ST4. 

Away  from  the  north  wind  cold  and  bleak, 
In  the  lovely  isle  of  Martinique, 
Where  towering  mountains  rugged  rise 
From  surging  ocean  to  sunny  skies, 
From  whose  summits  high,  wild  waters  dash 
Through  deep  ravines,  with  silvery  flash, 
And  o'er  naked  cliffs  mad  torrents  leap. 
And  onward  rush  to  the  mighty  deep  ; 

Encircled  by  hills  all  green  and  fair, 

Near  the  charming  town  of  St.  Pierre, 

Is  a  garden  vale  ;    a  quiet  place. 

Where  flowers  of  palm  trees  interlace, 

And  dark  green  leaves  of  the  mango  shake, 

As  the  zephyrs  waft  across  the  lake 

The  fragrance  sweet  of  orange  and  lime. 

While  softly  below  the  ripples  chime. 
3 


26  THE  lEON  LANCE. 

Wherever  green  boughs  and  grasses  meet, 
Forming  a  shady  and  cool  retreat, 
In  arbors  along  the  calm  lake's  shore, 
With  tamarind  branches  bending  o'er. 
Along  the  banks  of  the  limpid  stream, 
Where  the  crystal  bubbles  glance  and  gleam, 
Wherever  the  leaves  in  shadow  dance, 
There  lurks  the  venomous  "  iron  lance  "  ; 

And  woe  to  him,  who,  by  day  or  night, 
Feels  the  crawling  viper's  poison  bite. 
O,  the  world  is  full  of  vales  like  this. 
Where  nothing  seems  to  the  youth  amiss, 
Wliere  trees  of  happiness  fruit  bestow. 
And  flowers  of  pleasure  bloom  below, 
Where  joy  and  mirth  o'er  life's  waters  glance. 
But, — ever  there  lurks  the  "iron  lance/' 

When  he  holds  the  wine-cup  to  his  lips, 
'Mid  laughter  and  mirth  the  liquid  sips. 
When  alluring  beauty  bids  him  stay, 
And  his  feet  would  linger  in  the  way, 


THE  IRON  LANCE.  27 

Where  music  calls  to  the  merry   dance, 
O,  then  and  there  is  the  "iron  lance." 
Each  charming  spot  it  lurks  within, 
A  deadly  serpent, — the  viper  sin. 


POCKETS. 

All  over  the  land,  in  country  or  town, 

Nine  men  out  of  ten,  from  tlie  President    down, 

Have  their  hands  in  their  breeches  pockets. 

The  merchant  comes  out  of  his  palace  store, 
As  soon  as  his  coat-tails  are  clear  of  the  door, 
Down  his  hands  go  into  his  pockets. 

The  statesman,  with  diamond  pin  in  his  shirt, 
And  the  Irish  teamster  all  covered  with  dirt. 
Stop  to  rest  with  hands  in  their  pockets. 

The  shoemaker  throws  down  apron  and  last. 
And  home  to  his  dinner  is  hurrying  past 
With  his  hands  in  his  trowsers  pockets. 

The  perfumed  fop  with  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
And  the  grey  millionaire  of  the  sunny  south, 
Walk  out  with  hands  in  their  pockets. 


28 


POCKETS.  29 

Perhaps  'tis  a  fasliion  that  ne'er  grows  okl, 
'Tis  always  the  same,  in  hot  weather  or  cokl, 
All  hands  buried  deep  in  the  pockets. 

Would  it  not  have  been  an  excellent  thing, 

If  the  "Boss"  and  others,  of  "Tammany  Ring," 

Had  kept  all  their  hands  in  their  pockets? 

If  the  would-be  murderer,  clasping  knife 
Or  pistol,  intending  to  take  away  life, 
Would  put  both  his  hands  in  his  pockets, — 

The  drunkard,  when  longing  to  take  a  drink, 
Would  let  both  his  hands  very  quietly  sink, 
And  stay  there, — down  deep  in  his  pockets, 

Soon    crime  would  vanish  awav  from  the  worlo, 
The  fair  temperance  banner  be  unfurled, 
And  policemen's  hands  in  their  pockets. 


NO  FRETTING  IN  HEAVEN. 

We  all  have  burdens  to  bear, 
Troubles,  losses,  heavy  crosses. 
Dark  clouds  o'er  our  pathway  drifting, 
Tliunders  crashing,  lightnings  flashing. 
And  God's  grace  the  soul  uplifting, 
Chaff  from  out  the  pure  grain  sifting. 
Through  tears,  heartache  and  care. 

Then  murmur  not,  when  dreary 
Your  pathway  lies  'neath  gloomy  sides; 
Fretting  makes  no  burden  lighter, 
Brings  no  gladness,  only  sadness. 
Fretting  makes  your  robe  no  whiter. 
Fretting  makes  your  crown  no  brighter. 
Gives  no  rest  when  weary. 

But  those  you  love,  at  even 

May  long  for  rest  in  mansions  blest, 

Where  fretting  will  sadden  never 


liO  FRETTING  IN  HEAVEN.  31 

Their  happy  lot,     O,  then,  fret  not ! 
Remember,  while  yet  together, 
Death  soon  loving  friends  may  sever, 
And  none  will  fret  in  heav'n. 


A  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

Father!  by  faith  I  bring  my  child  to   Thee, 
And  thank  Thee  for  the  gift  Thon  gavest  me, 
And  ask  for  wisdom,  patience,  and  Thy  light, 
To  teach  my  little  one  to  love  the  right. 

O,  may  he  early  learn  to  love  Thy  Book, 
And  early  to  my  Blessed  Jesus  look, 
Nor  shun  the  cross,  but  work  with  willing  lieart, 
And  others  lead  to  choose  the  better  part. 

I  know  the  world  is  full  of  wickedness. 
Dear    Saviour !    Thou  wast   once  a  boy,  O,  bless 
This  little  boy  of  mine,  keep  him  from  sin; 
Knock  at  his  heart  till  he  shall  let  Thee  in. 

Into  his  future  life  I  cannot  see. 

'Tis  well,  I  hope,  and  leave  it  all  with  Thee. 

O,  Holy  Spirit,  dwell  my  heart  within. 

That  I,  to  Christ,  his  precious  soul  may  win! 

32 


A   MOTUEWS  PRAYEB.  33 

Or,  if  my  race  of  life  be  nearly  run, 
Still  I  can  say,  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 
I  know  Thou  over-riilest  all  for  sfood, 
Thou  givest  to  the  sparrows  daily  food, — 

And  Thou  wilt  care  for  him,  my  little  boy. 
I  trust  Thee,  and  find  comfort,  peace  and  joy ; 
For  Thou  art  love.     I  thank  Thee  once   ao-ain. 
That  I  can  feel  Thy  way  is  best.     Amen. 


MY  FAVORITES. 

I  love  the  moss,  the  velvet  moss, 
Gold-green  interwoven  with  brown ; 

In  the  woody  dell  it  loves  to  dwell. 
Away  from  the  noisy  town. 

I  love  the  fragrant  pink  and  white 

Arbutus,  first  flower  of  spring; 
Down  under  the  snow  the  sweet  buds  grow, 

When  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

I  love  the  lowly  running  vine. 

With  light-veined,  heart-shaped,  glossy  leaves, 
With  its  blossoms  white,  and  berries  bright. 

Nestling  close  to  roots  of  trees. 

I  love  the  graceful,  waving  fern, 

And  the  modest  violet  blue, 
O,  there's  none  too  small  I  God  made  them  all. 

And  giveth  to  each  its  hue. 

84 


MY  FAVORITES.  35 


A  Father's  care,  a  Father's  love, 

I  can  read  on  every  leaf. 
He  sendeth  the  rain,  He  gives  the  grain, 

And  He  knows  our  inmost  grief. 


ON  STAR  ISLAND. 

With  acliing  heart  on  the  rocks  I  stand, 
And  mourn  for  one*  of  our  happy  band, 
Wlio  sailed  with  us  o'er  the  summer  sea, 
AVhose  kugh  and  song  were  joyous  and  free. 

We  roamed  o'er  the  isle,  with  nimble  feet, 
We  thought  not  of  death,  life  seemed  so  sweet, 
We  heard  not  the  ocean's  solemn  moan, — 
I  hear  it  now  as  I  stand  alone. 

O   cold,  treacherous,  tidal  wave! 

O  cruel,  cruel  sea ! 

You  may  sparkle  and  dash 

With  brilliant  flash, 

But  methinks  my  schoolmate  I  see, 

Lying  cold,  pale  and  dead, 

In  her  rock-weed  bed, 

*Miss  Van-ell  of  Rye,  who  was  washed  from  Miss  Umlerhill's 
chair,  by  a  tidal  wave. 


ON  STAB  ISLAND.  37 

While  the  west  wind  sobs  o'er  the  main, 

Telling  of  grief  and  pain, 

In  her  home  on  the  shore, 

"Where,  forevermore, 

They  will  long  for  her  love  in  vain. 

O  schoolmate  I    strange  that  you   should  be 
Tost  by  the  currents  of  the  sea. 
While  I  stand  here    alone  to-day. 
And  wij)e  the  falling  tears  away. 

We  roved  in  woods  and  meadows  gay 
With  flowers,  raked  the  new-mown  hay. 
Picked  berries,  gathered  violets 
From  dewy  grass  by  rivulets. 

O  cold,  treacherous,  tidal  wave ! 

O   cruel,   cruel  sea ! 

You  may  sparkle  and  dash 

With  brilliant  flash. 

But  methinks  my  schoolmate  I  see, 

Lying  cold,  pale  and  dead, 

In  her  rock-weed  bed. 

While  the   west  wind  sobs  o'er  the  sea ! 


IN  THE  WOODS. 

Througli  tlie  grassy  lane  I  roam, 
Catching  glimpse  of  sail  and  foam, 

To  the  green  woods  yonder  lying, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 
Song  of  bird  and  hum  of  bee, 

Blend  with  zephyrs  softly  sighing. 

Lovely  woods  of  pine  and  spruce, 
Cones  and  tassels  scattered  loose 

Over  rocks  and  massive  ledges ; 
And  the  slender  grasses  nod, 
Graceful  ferns  and  golden   rod 

Wave  betAveen  the  granite  edges. 

Soft  green  carpet  underneath. 
Wrought  in  cluster,  spray  and  wreath, 

Through  the  moss,  the  partridge  twining, 
And  the  lilies  frail  and  white, 
Droop  o'er  scarlet  berries  bright, 

On  the  light-veined  leaves  reclining. 


IN  THE   WOODS.  39 

Roots  uptorn  by  winter's  blast, 
With  red  lichens  clinging  fast ; 

Tiny  cups  and  cunning  vases 
And   long  fringes  hid  away 
On  old  branches,  brown  and  gray, 

In  the  quiet,  shady  places. 

Plere  the  sweetest  roses  blow. 
Berries  in  abundance  grow. 

Under  branches  gently  swaying. 
Fragrance  wafted  on  the  air 
Comes  to  me  from  meadows  fair. 

Where  the  laborers  are  haying. 

Rest  and  peace  I  seek  to-day. 
Fling  each  earthl}^  care  awa}^, 

Gather  berries,  vines  and  flowers. 
Watch  the  squirrels  frisk  about 
On  the  branches,   in  and  out 

Through  the  pleasant,  leafy  bowers. 

O,  these  woods  to  me  are  dear. 
For  I  know  that  God  is  here ! 
Ev'ry  thing  his  wisdom  showeth ; 


40  IN  THE   WOODS. 

Lowly  moss  and  rugged  pine, 
Solid  rock  and  creeping  vine, 

E'en  the  grass  the  west   wind  bloweth. 

At  His  throne  my  spirit  kneels ; 
Peace  into  my  bosom  steals. 
"  Fatlier !   keep  me  meek  and  and  lowl}^ 
Lead  me  in  the  narrow  way. 
Never  let   me  from   Thee  stray. 
Help  me  to  be  pure  and  holy ! 

"  Oft  my  heart  is  faint  and  sore, 
And  I  want  to  love  Thee  more. 

Let  me  no   unkindness  cherish, 
Teach  me  daily  how  to  live. 
Help  me  others  to  forgive, 

Let  the  poison  weeds  all  perish! 

"  Thanks  to  Thee  for  all  I  see ; 
Beauty  brings  me  near  to  Thee  ! " 

And  my  heart,  in  bliss  replying 
To  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 
Song  of  bird  and  hum  of  bee, 

Ceases  all  its  bitter  crying. 


THE  CARDINAL  FLOWER. 

The  brook  winds  through  the  meadow, 

In  the  tangled  copse  it  hides 
A  moment,  in  the  shadow, 

Then  under  the  bridge  it  glides, 
And  flows  by  the  rock  to  a  vine-wreathed  bower, 
To  bathe  the  feet  of  the  cardinal  flower. 
And  reflect  the  intensely  red  raceme 
Of  the  gorgeous  plant  of  the  crystal  stream. 

Where  the  shallow  ripples  flow. 

And  the  rushes  interlace, 
She  saw  it  brilliantly  glow, 

.  I  plucked  it  for  her,  my  Grace. 
Long  ago,  for  my  darling  wife,  now  at  rest; 
Of  all  native  blossoms,  she  loved  this  the  best. 
O,  well  I  remember  that  August  day, 
The  last  time  that  ever  we  rode  this  way! 


41 


HAREBELLS. 

Harebells,  I  have  found  you, 
Swinging  in  tlie  breeze, 

Fragrant  herbs  around  you, 
Under  maple  trees! 

All  your  stems  so  slender. 
With  their  leafy  fringe, 

Sunbeams  warm  and  tender, 
Give  a  golden  tinge! 

When  you  lift  your  faces, 
Does  the  falling  dew 

Note  your  silent  graces, 
Pretty  cups  of  blue? 

Modest  little  harebell. 
Won't  you  look  at  me? 

Don't  you  know  I  lov§  well 
Your  sweet  purity? 


42 


HAREBELLS.  43 

Nature  has  not  stinted 

You  iji  point  of  line ; 
Beautifully  tinted, 

Dark  veins  running  through! 

You've  a  gentle  sweetness 

With  a  lofty  mien, 
Delicate  completeness, 

Lowly,  yet  a  queen! 

Wave  within  your  bower, 

Graceful  little  bell; 
Of  a  charming  flower 

That  I  love,  I'll  tell. 

Dignified,  yet  lowly. 

Modest,  kind  and  true, 
Striving  to  be  holy. 

Aiming  good  to  do. 

Bluebell,  you  remind  me 

Of  her,  I  am  sure  ! 
Sweet  the  ties  that  bind  me 

To  tills  blossom  pure. 


44  HAEEBELLS. 

Slie,  a  gentle  magnet, 
Draws  tlie  tender  rays 

Of  love's  sunshine  round  her, 
By  her  winning  ways. 

Home  is  made  a  bower 
By  her  cheerful  care  ; 

She,  the  queenly  flower, 
Sways  her  scepter  there. 


THAT  CAT. 

She   came   one  day,  with  sorrowful  wail, 
A  black  and  white   cat,   with  spotted  tail ; 
For  the  baby's  sake  I  let  her  stay, 
But  wish  her  a  thousand  miles  away. 

Ten  minutes  ago   she  made  a  jump, 
Down  went   my  plants  with  a  crashing  thump 
I  saved  the  fragments  of  this  and  that, 
And  wished  somebody  would  kill  that  cat. 

The  other  day  I  heard  a  clatter ; 
Found   on  the  floor  my  turkey  platter 
All   gone  to  smash,  and  that  wicked  thief, 
Stuffing  herself  with  five  pounds   of  beef. 

One  night,  I  had  just  begun  to   doze, 
That  hateful  cat  walked  over  my  nose, 
And  marched  around  over  quilt  and  sheet, 
And  left  the  tracks  of  her  muddy  feet. 


45 


46  THAT  CAT. 

On  the  kitchen  lounge  has  sharpened  claws. 
Till  the  covering  is  full  of  flaws ; 
And  out  in  the  shed,  behind  the  door, 
Scratching  and  mewing,   are  kittens  four. 

I   think  of  it  all  with  aching  heart, 
And  think  tliat  the  cat  and  I  must  part. 
Will  some  good  woman  who  never  frets, 
And  has  a  hankering  after  pets. 

And  cherishes  cats  with  love  untold, 
Take  them '/      She's  welcome.     I  will  not  scold. 
The  baby  loves  her  ?     Well,  yes,  I  know ; 
After  all,   I  hate  to  have  her  go. 

He  will  miss  her  if  she  goes  away. 

I  don't   want  her,  but  the   cat  may  stay. 


SEPTEMBER. 

The  gleaming  sunbeams  quiver 
On  the  wavelets  of  the  river, 
And  western  gold  and  zenith  blue 

Are  so   completely  blended, 
I   know  not  where  the   gold  begins, 

Or  where  the  blue  is  ended. 

So   Summer  mingles  with   Fall. 

Unfolding  its  feathery  ball 

Of  smoke,  the   clematis  rambles 

By  fields  of  corn  and   clover. 
And  harebells  swing  beside  the  wall. 

The  wax-work  straggles  over. 

-The  gentian  blooms  by  the  rill, 
The  purple  aster  on  the  hill, 
The  valley  is  a  gorgeous  sea, 

With   vavi'gated  billows, 
A\'herc  red  and  golden  maples  blaze 

Among  green  oaks  and  willows. 


48  SEPTEMBER. 

Branches  with  their  fruitful  load, 
Are  bending  o'er  the  dusty  road, 
In  the   orchard    and  the   forest 

Rich,  warbled  notes  are  ringing, 
And   crickets  in   the  meadow  grass, 

From  blade  to   seed  are    springing. 

Purple  haze  above  the   pond, 

Half  hides  the  woody  slope  beyond, 

Where  waves  the  summer  golden-rod. 

In  graceful,  showy  masses. 
And  where  the   crimson  sumacli  glows 

Above    the  withered  grasses. 

O   Summer,   can  you  not  stay  ? 
Dear  songsters,   will  you  fly  away? 
O   sweet  wild-flowers,  must  you  die  ? 

I  fain  would  have  you   linger. 
But  fairest  flowers  first  are  touched 

By  Autumn's  icy  finger. 

The  birds  will  soon  take  their  flight, 
And  chilling  winds  the   buds  will  blight ; 


SEPTEMBER.  49 

Shall  we  not  then  more  highly   prize 
The   cheering  sunshine  given  ? 

So  when  our  earthly  joys  depart, 
We  think  the  more  of  heaven. 

Our  need  the  Father  knows  best, 
We  labor,  and  He  gives  us  rest. 
We  leave  the  footsteps  of  our  Lord, 

While  seeking  worldly  pleasures, 
He  sends  an  angel  in  disguise, 

To  show  us  priceless  treasures. 

Find  I  no  dividing  line 

Between  the    Fall  and  Summer-time, 

So   I  would  have  my  heav'nly  joys 

With  these  completely  blended, 
And  have  my  future  life  begin, 

Before  this  life  is  ended. 


FREDDY. 

A  mother  watched  two  little   feet 
Go  swiftly  down  the  village  street; 

A  little  frock  with  buttons  new, 
A  cap  on  curls  of  golden  hue. 

The  mother  watched  her  blue-eyed  boy, 
With  eyes  that  told  her  heart's   deep  joy. 

As  off  he  ran,  that  sunny  day. 
With  pretty  Bessie   Green  to  play. 

She  heard  the   rustling  of  the   leaves 
O'erhead,  against  the  cottage  eaves. 

She  saw  the  purple  pansy  meek. 
With  tears  upon  its  velvet  cheek, 

Verbena,  mignonette   and  phlox, 
Droop  o'er  the  narrow  garden  walks. 


FREDD  V.  51 

"  The  flow'rs  are  sad  to-day,"  she  said, 
"The   breeze  seems  moaning  for  the   dead. 

"  September  smiles,  but  ah !    I  fear 
The  blighting  frost  will  soon  be  here. 

"  The  wind  through  leafless  trees  will  sigh, 
The  lovely  flowers  soon  must  die." 

Alas !   the  mother's  words  were  true  ; — 
The  death-frost  touched  her  spirit  too. 

The  little  feet  no  more  were  seen 
Lightly  to  press  the  village  green. 

She   called  her  darling  bo}'  in  vain 
Through  days  of  anguish,   nights  of  pain. 

Under  a  tree,  among  the  flow'rs. 

He  played  with   Bessie  two  long  hours, 

Tlien  said,  "Goodbye,"  and  all   alone. 
Went  through  the  gateway,  started  home. 


62  FREDDY. 

They  knew  no  more.     In  vain  they  sought. 
The  weeks  rolled  on, — the  boy  was  not ! 

"  He  will  not  come,"  the   mother  said ; 
"  My  child,  my  only  boy,  is  dead  ! " 

When  late  October  robed  in  brown 
The  lofty  trees,  all  loaded  down 

With  nuts,  and   squirrels  frisked  about, 
And  boys,   with  laugh  and  merry  shout, 

Filled  bags  and  baskets,  one  had  said, 
"  We  may,  perhaps,  find  little   Fred." 

And  trudging  through  black  mud  and  sand, 
Beside  a  ditch  in  meadow  land, 

A  gleaming  button  caught  his  eye ; 
"  Why !    that  was  Freddy's  ! "    and  a  cry 

Of  mingled   joy  and  grief  he  gave, 
For  he  had  found  poor  Freddy's  grave. 


FREDDY.  53 

With   throbbing  heart  and    trembling  hand, 
He  knelt,  and  scraped  away  the  sand. 

Awe-stricken  stood  his  mates  around. 
Tears  fell,  but  lips  gave  forth  no  sound. 

O  small  brown  hands,   O  sunny  hair ! 
O  precious  one,  so  young,  so  fair! 

They  bore  the  little  form  away, 
And  laid  it  where  the  zephyrs  play, 

Among  the   blossoms,  rich  and  rare. 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the   summer  air: 


'to' 


And  sad-eyed  velvet  pansy  weeps 
Above  the  grave,  where  Freddy  sleeps. 


DEAD  LEAVES. 

Silently  flows  the  brook  to-day, 

Over  the  dead  leaves  mixed  with  clay, 

Leaves  that  were  green  the  other  day. 

Leaves  of  crimson,  russet  and  gold, 
Autumn  robe  of  the  lovel^^  wold 
Faded  and  rumpled,  tattered,  old. 

Heaped  in  corners,  and  whirled"  at  will 
Of  th'   cruel  north  wind,  sharp  and  chill. 
That  shrieks  around  the  woody  hill, 

As  he  who  robs  a  maiden's  heart 

Of  love,   and  through  it  thrusts  a  dart. 

Well  pleased  that  he  has  caused  the  smart. 

So  howls  the  wind  tlirougli  tree-tops  bare. 
Laughing,  because  no  leaves  are  there ; 
Leaves  that  are  dying  otherwhere. 


&i 


DEAD  LEAVES.  55 

The  limpid  brook  sings  not  to-day; 
It  only  whispers  of  decay, 
Then  slowly,  softly,  glides  away. 

O  withered  leaves !   to  me  you   seem 
Like  lost  hopes   sunken  in  life's  stream ; 
The  crumpled  fragments  of  a  dream, 

That  blown  about  and  scattered  wide, 
And  floating  on  love's  ebbing  tide. 
No   longer  in  the  heart  abide. 

The  years  pass  on.      Love  is  the  same, 
The  hopes,  the  fears  and  bliss  remain, 
And  lovers  only  change  in  name. 

The  leaves  may  fall,  the  dreams  may  go, 
But  through  eternity,  we  know 
The  sea  of  love  shall  ebb  and  flow. 


NOVEMBER. 

There  are  five  seasons,  November  is  tlie  last, 
The  Lamentation  of  the  year. 

The  wold  and  toft  their  withered  leaves  have  cast. 
And  earth  and  sky  are   drear, 
Each  raindrop  is  a  tear. 

There   were   five    children ;    three   brothers,    sisters 
two. 

And  all  are  dead  but  one.     Alone 
He   lies  in  anguish,  upon  a  bed  of  rue. 

And  maketh  ceaseless  moan 

In  low,  sad  monotone 

Through  all  the  dismal  night.     Above   the  leaden 
main, 

When  slowly  creeps  the  tardy  morn, 
No  ray  of  comfort  shines  through  clouds  of  pain; 

There  is  no  sunlit  dawn 

For  him,   the   sad  forlorn. 


56 


NOVEMBER.  57 

Adown  the  valley,  the  west  wind  whistles  shrill, 
And  fiercely  does  the   north  wind  blow, 

And  madly  raves  and  shrieks  the  east  wind  chill* 
Now,  wailing  as  they  go, 
Now,  sobbing  out  their  woe. 

Dead  are  four  seasons.     November  lingers,  ill. 

But  he  has  heard  Death's  solemn   call, 

Soon  will  the   children  five  be  lying   still ; 
And  snowflakes  cover  all. 
With  an  unspotted  pall. 


PANSY. 

She  sat  on  a  mossy  hassock, 

Dead  leaves  all  around  her  lay, 
I  stood  by  a  tree,  and  between  us 

Ran  the  stream  on    its  winding  way. 
Her  voice  was  like   the   melody 

Of  the  softly  flowing  brook, 
And  her  eyes  revealed  the  purity 

Of  her  heart  in  every  look. 

She  seemed  like  a  dark-e3^ed  pansy. 

Where  purple  and  amber  meet, 
Grace,  sweetness  and  dignity  blended, 

And  I  deemed  her  a  woman  complete. 
Unconscious  of  her  loveliness. 

My  elegant    Pansy  sat, 
Till  the  birches  trembled  with  happiness. 

And  a  hazel  bough  kissed  her  hat. 


£8 


PANSY.  59 

Her  small  brown  glove   the  shield-fern  kissed, 

And  the  mosses  kissed  her  feet, 
And  through   the  ravine  a    sunbeam   glanced 

With  a  kiss  for  her  red  lips  sweet. 
Respectfully,  with  mute  caress, 

Did  zephyrs  touch  cheek  and  brow. 
The  maple  outspread  its  hands  to  bless, 

A  chickadee  sang  on  the  bough. 

Now,  as  I  tread  the  narrow  path, 

That  skirts  the  tangled  ravine, 
I  think  I  hear  gentle  voices   call 

For  their  beautiful  dark-eyed  queen  ; 
And  I  my  voice  with  theirs   unite, 

For  I  love   their  graceful  friend, 
And  again  our  Pansy  we  invite 

To  come  to  the  mossy  bend. 


NETTLES. 

Through  all  the    Summer  and  the  Fall, 

A  nettle  stood  beside  the  wall, 

An  ngly  nettle,  lean   and  tall ; 

I  pitied,   touched  the   lonely  thing, 

And  learned  its  mission  was  to  sting. 

The  momentary  smart  was  keen. 
But  sharper  is  the  sting,    I  ween. 
Of  bitter  word,  and  scornful  mien. 
No  contact  needs  the  nettle  lance 
That  can  be  given  in   a  glance. 

From  heart  and  eye  to  eye  and  heart. 
There  flashes  an  electric  dart 
Invisible ;   it  does  impart 
The   truth,  and  soul  may  surely  know, 
The  friendly  soul  from  soul  of  foe. 


60 


NETTLES.  61 

Some  nettles   rank,  more   than   their  share 
Of  piercing  stings   about  them  bear, 
And  use  them  always,  everywhere, 
And  oft  the  chain  of  friendship  break  ; 
And  tears  must  fall,  and  hearts  must  ache. 

Some  nettles  use  the   sting  at  home, 
To  keep  the  household  in  a  foam, 
And  would  conceal  it  when  they  roam  ; 
But  find  the  wearing  of  the   mask, 
Is  not  a  very  easy  task. 

Sometimes  the  prickles  needful  are, 
Intruders  from  the  heart  to  bar. 
When  they  its  purity  would  mar. 
But  thorny  nettles  should  beware. 
How  they  the  hearts  of  others  tear. 


SUNSET. 

Written  for  the  golden    wedding  of   Dea.  and  Mrs.  James 
Davis,  March  23,  1875. 

The  longest  life  is  like  a  summer  day, 

So  swiftly  do  its  moments  glide  away. 

The  eastern  sky  of  amber-colored  light, 

Where  softly  gleams  the  splendid  morning  star, 
Soon  turns  to  rosy  hues  more  fair  and  bright, 

And  blushing  ocean,   river,   brook  and  mar. 
Reflect  the  glory  of   the   early  dawn, 
The  lambent  glory  of  the   crimson  morn. 

So   the  dim  hopes  of  childhood  brighter  grow,    . 
And  ever   with  increasing  luster  glow 
Through  3^outh,   till  the  roseate  sky  of  love 

Imparts  a  glory  to  all  common  things. 
And   common  things  reflect  the  light  above, 

So  wondrous  is  the  charm  of  love,  that  brings' 
Two  hearts  into   communion   sacred,   sweet. 
Two   trusting  hearts  in  unison  to  beat. 

62 


SUNSET.  63 

When  holy   vows   unite  the   two  in  one, 
The   rising  sun  proclaims  the   da}^  begun ; 
The   world  unto  the    newly  married  pair 

With  radiance  is  flooded.     Fairly  tinged, 
The  threat'ning  clouds  of  sorrow,  toil  and  care, 

That  in  the   distance  rise,   are  silver-fringed, 
So  lustrous  is  the  ray  that  onward  darts, 
So  hopeful  is  the  love  of  happy  hearts. 

Through  fifty  pleasant,  peaceful  years  of  life, 
Together,  faithfully  have  man  and  wife 
Their  dut}^  done.     And  now  the  interlude 

Has  come.     This  is  the  sunset  hour.     Its  light 
Is  not  less  beautiful  because  subdued. 

The  purple   clouds  now  floating  into  sight, 
Increase  the  grandeur  of  the  setting  sun. 
They  are  the  emblems  of  a  vict'ry  won. 

A  noble  victory,  for  they  have   been 
Led  by  God's  grace  to  triumph  over  sin; 
To  patiently  endure   the  little  ills 

That  vex  the  soul,  and  fret  its  peace   away. 
And  now  the  lieart  with  thankful  rapture  thrills. 


64  SUNSJET. 

Upon    this  joyful,   golden  wedding  day, 
That  God   has  gently  led  through  sun  and  rain. 
That  He  has  kindly  kept  through  joy  and  pain. 

Now    friends    with     children    and    grandchildren 

meet. 
These  aged  Christian  travelers  to  greet, 
These  parents,  looking  on  their  noble  sons 

And  faithful  daughters,  can  but  feel 
That   God  has  smiled  upon  their  little  ones, 

For  whom  they  toiled  and  prayed  with  trust- 
ing zeal. 
Their  children  honor  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
And  gratefully  recount  their  parents'  worth. 

This  is   the  sunset   hour.     Love's  golden  beams. 
Though  not  so  brilliant  as  in  morning  dreams, 
With   mellow  light  illume  the  fading  day. 

And  after  sunset,   may  a  long   twilight 
Of    happiness  succeed,  to  pass  away 

Into  a  quiet  evening  star-bedight, 
Each   star  a  promise   by  the  Father  given, 
Tlieir    souls    to    strengthen,    cheer   and   guide    to 
heaven. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1875. 

Ring,  ring,  village   bell ! 
Your  thanks  for  liberty  ring, 
Awaken  the  echoes  of  the  wold, 
For  freedom  is  ninety-nine  years  old, 
On  this   Independence  day. 

Ring,  ring,  joyful  bell ! 

For  liberty  peal  and  ring, 

Wild  birds  are  caroling  sweet  and  clear. 

And  th'  bark  of  the  faithful  dog  I   hear. 

It  is  the  Fourth  of  July. 

Ring,  ring,  happy  bell ! 

Cheerily,  cheerily  ring. 

The  boys  are  out  for  frolic  and  fun. 

The  toot  of  horn  and  the  boom  of  gun 

Welcome  the  Fourth  of  July. 


(>5 


66  FOUBTn  OF  JULY,  1S75. 

Ring,  ring,  neighboring  bells ! 

Of  liberty  talk  and  ring; 

Talk  to  each  other  over  the  hills, 

And  th'  breeze  shall  whisper  it  to  the  rills, 

That  gladly  ripple  to-day. 

Ring,  ring,  all  ye  bells  ! 

For  liberty  loudly  ring; 

All  over  the  Union  chant  and  ring, 

In  every  city  chime  and  sing. 

Ring  merrily  all  at  once. 

Ring,  ring,  solemn  bells ! 

Slowly  and  tenderly  ring, 

Toll  mournfully  o'er  the  land  your  sobs. 

For  th'  heart  of  a  mighty  nation  throbs 

At  the  memory  of  her  dead. 

Ring,  ring  Union  bells ! 

For  freedom  thankfully  ring. 

In  a  chorus  grand  your  voices  raise. 

And  bear  to  heaven  a  hymn  of  praise, 

Of  praise  to  the  Lord  our  King. 


VIOLETS. 

In  a  pasture  beside  the  broad  Atlantic, 
Among  the  spruces  and  the  rocks  gigantic, 

Early  in  balmy  Ma}-, 

A  little  child  at  play, 

Found  by  a  tiny  rivulet, 

A  solitary  violet, 
'Neath  withered  leaves  half  hid  awav, 
Blue  as  th'  sea  on  a  summer  day. 

And  to  her  tender  heart, 

The  flower  did  impart 
Mysteriously  each  year  to  be  renewed, 
A  flower-love  perennial,  joy-imbued. 

(In  the  meadow,  by  the  rill, 

Sky  blue  violets  grow ; 
In  the  wood  and  on  the  hill, 

Purple  violets  blow. 
Is  it  purple  or  blue? 

B7 


68  VIOLETS. 

Or  a  perfect  blending  of  tlie  two 
Into  elegant  violet  line?) 

Years  passed,  and  the    child    to  a    fair  maiden 

grown, 
In  a  shadj  retreat  was  kneeling  alone. 
And  from  cool  mosses  green, 
With  the  twin-vine  between. 
At  the  foot  of  a  beech  tree  old, 
Picked  violets  yellow  as  gold; 
(Amber  violets  x)ale  and  bright 
Like  varied  tints  of  sunset  light), 
And  sadly  thought  of  him. 
Who  false  to  her  had  been. 
And  the  violets  saw  the  hot  tears  that  fell, 
As  the  maiden  pondered  alone  in  the  dell. 

Each  heart  has  sorrows  and  pains, 

All  have  burdens  to  bear; 
Because  of  its  penciled  veins, 

Is  th'  violet  less  fair? 
Does  pain  heart-beauty  mar? 
Or  is  it  purer  and  sweeter  far, 
When  meeklv  borne  sorrow  leaves  a  scar  ? 


VIOLETS.  69 

God  gives  His  children  strength  and  grace, 

Afflictions  to  endure, 
His  fingers  the  dark  veinings  trace 

Upon  heart-petals  pure ; 
And  her  heart,  like  a  pale  golden  violet, 
Was  lovelier  for  delicate  lines  like  jet, 
For,  the  soul  in  distress, 
She  could  pity  and  bless, 
And  stript  of  pride  and  selfishness, 
Her  heart  of  beauty  had  not  less; 
And  one  who  long  her  worth  had  known, 
Courted  and  won  lier  for  his  own  ; 
His  sunshine,  helpmeet,  wife. 
And  they  their  wedded  life 
Began  with  mutual  love  and  confidence, 
Well  mixed  with  kindness,  patience,  and  com- 
mon sense. 

Love  like  scent  of  violets  white, 
Pleasant,  but  not  too   sweet. 

For  a  passionate  love  and  light. 
Is  certain  to  be  fleet ; 


70  VIOLETS. 

It  does  not  calmly  bear, 

And  extenuate  the  wear  and  tear, 

Of  vexing  trifles  and  daily  care. 

But  love  tliat  is  steady  and  strong, 
And  based  on  common  sense, 

Will  surely  yield  happiness  long. 
And  hearts  that  it  cements. 

Till  death  will  firmly  united  be. 

Nor  seek  for  a  new  affinity. 

Thrice  had  the  apple-tree  its  thited  snowflakes 

shed, 
Thrice  had  the  wind-flower  bloomed  since  they 
were  wed. 

When  Sunshine  and  their  boy 
Went  often  to  enjoy 
The  soul-refreshing  solitude. 
And  soothing  music  of  the  wood, 
To  bask  in  sunlight  heaven-sent, 
The  mother  with  her  lot  content, 
Having  no  ambition. 
For  another  mission, 


VIOLETS.  71 

Than  that  which  to  wife  and  mother  is  given, 
The  making  of  home  a  miniature   heaven. 

Oft  they  wandered  to  the  meadow, 

Lingered  in  the   bowers, 
Where  the  sun-besprinkled  shadow, 

Flits  among  tlie  flowers, 
Resting  the  weary  feet. 
Breathing  the  genial  air  replete 
With  perfume  faint  of  wild  flowers  sweet ; 

And  Alfred  gathered  quickl}-, 

Dandelions  scattered  thickly 
In  the  grass,  each  one  a  gem. 
Snatched  the  bloom  witliout  the  stem. 
And  filled  his  mother's  lap  with  them. 
Brought  them  in  his  chubby  fist, 

For  his  mother's  pleasure. 
And  his  rosy  face  she  kissed, 

And  kept  each  stemless  treasure. 

Then  she  talked  to  him  of  God, 

Who  made  the  flowers  that  deck  the  sod. 

Of  Ilim  who  governs  sea  and  land, 


72  VIOLETS. 

In  language  he  could  understand, 
While  she  plucked  the    blossoms  she    loved  so 

dearly. 
Blue  and  white  violets  she  gathered   yearly, 
Placed  them  in  her  vases, 
Where  their  pleasant  faces, 
The  beauty  of  their  home  enhanced, 
And  cheered  her  as   at  them  she  glanced, 
While  she  performed  with  nimble  hand 
The  work  her  brain  before  had  planned, 
Or  as  from  books  she  sought. 
To  harvest  precious  thought. 
And  garner  it,  believing  it  her  duty. 
To  mingle  with  labor,  wisdom  and  beauty. 

O  the  blessed  love  of  flowers ! 

How  it  cheers  the  lonely  heart, 
How  it  shortens  weary  hours. 
What  true  joy  does  it  impart. 
To  those  who  roam. 
Where  dewdrops  gleam 
On  mossy  banks 
Of  the  limpid  stream, 


VIOLETS.  73 

That  crinkles  and  turns 

To  kiss  the  feet 

Of  delicate  ferns, 

That  quiver  and  thrill, 

As  the  bobolinks  trill 

Their  gushing  harmony; 

And  the  fascinated  rill, 
In  the  hollow,  for  a  moment, 

Listens,  standing  still. 
Then  echoes  the  wondrous  melody, 
As  it  dances  down  the  hill. 

In  the  country  flowers  blow. 

Freely  bloom  for  great  and  small 
Let  them  not  unheeded  grow ; 
Seek  for  tliem,  ye  mothers  all 

In  the  forest 

Where  nestling  vines 

Creep  and  cover 

The  roots  of  tall  j^ines. 

Whose  branches  swing, 

As  the  breezes  sinir 


74  VIOLETS. 

Of  quiet  and  rest, 
And  smootli  tlie  lines 
Of  care  from  the  Brow, 
While  peace  steals  into  the  breast. 

Let  the  children  cull  them  too, 

For  a  flower-love  within 
The  heart,  will  it  with  bliss  imbue. 
Leaving  much  less  room  for  sin, 
O  let  them  rove 
In  free  delight 
Through  croft  and  grove. 

Where  wild-flowers  bright 
Befleck  the  ever-waving  green 

Of  dale  and  lea, 
And  robins  flit  the  boughs  between 
Of  shrub  and  tree, 
And  nature,  with  manifold  voices, 
Li  the  wisdom  of  God  rejoices. 

In  her  chamber,  pale  and  weak,  the   mother  lay. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  breath  of  May- 
Delicious  and  replete 


VIOLETS.  75 

With  bird-song  wildly  sweet, 
Mingled  with  sweeter  sounds  of  glee, 
The  voices  of  her  children  three. 
As  in  the  field  they  early  sought 
The  vernal  blossoms  which  they  brought, 
On  tiptoe  to  her  room, 
And  left  the  fragrant  bloom. 
Softly,  while    she    slept,  where,  waking,  she  would 

see 
Their  gifts,  and  say,  "  Th'  dear  ones  gathered  them 
for  me," 

Then  in  silence  went  away. 
Their  father  kind  to  tell, 
"  They  some  violets  had  found, 
To  make  poor  mother  well." 
Each  met  he  with  caress. 
And  said  in  his  heart,  "  O  Lord,  I  bless 
Thy  name,  that  they  are  not  motherless." 

For  he  thought  of  the  day  when  his  wife  in  tir  heat 
Of  fever,  had  talked  of  a  quiet  retreat. 

Where  grasses  cool  should  wave 

Above  a  long,  low  grave, 


76  VIOLETS. 

On  wliicli  the  nightly  dews  should  fall, 
O'er  which  a  weeping  willow  tall, 
Should  gracefully  its  branches  spread. 
And  sweetly,  sweetly  overhead. 
The  birds  would  ever  sing, 
And  'twould  be  always  spring, 
And  daily  fresh  violets  scattered  would  be 
On  the  grave,  by  a  man  and  his  children  three. 
He  had  deemed  that  she  might  pass 

Forever  from  his  life ; 
The  mother  of  his  little  ones. 
His  precious,  patient  wife  ; 
O,  could  he  let  her  go? 
Could  he  drink  the  bitter  cup  of  woe? 
In  weakness  he  answered,  "  No,  O  no !  " 

"  An  iron  hand  all  barbed  with   hooks, 
Seems  clutching  my  poor  heart; 
O  Grief,  remove  thy  crushing  hand! 
O  Death,  from  us  depart ! 

"  Roll  back  thy  swift,  oii-coming  flood, 
And  thy  dark  billows  stay; 


VIOLETS.  11 

The  cherished  center  of  our  home, 
Bear  not  from  earth  away ! 

"  The  violet  within  the    dell 

Would  bloom,  though  she  were  gone, 
The  grass  would  spring,  the  birds  would  sing, 
But  I  should  be  forlorn. 

"No  more  her  tender  voice  to  hear, 
No  more  her  smile  to  see ! 
Our  little  children  motherless, 
O  no,  it  must  not  be ! " 

Then  he  thought    of  each  hasty  word  he  had  said 
To  the  woman  he  loved,  who  would  soon  be  dead. 
"O  if  she  could  but  live, 
O  if  she  would  forgive 
Each  unkind  word  !     Too  late,  too  late. 
Our  home  will  soon  be  desolate ! 
And  can  I,  must  I  say  '  Goodby '  ? 
O  Lord,  her  God,  to  Thee  I  cry ! 
O  grant  me  grace  to  bow 
Submissive  to   Thee  now! 


78  VIOLETS. 

O  God !    to  my  heart  teach  the  pray'r  of  Thy  Son, 
Not    my    will,    not   my  will,  but  Thine,   Lord,  be 
done." 

But  the   danger  now  was  past; 

The  awful  rushing  tide 
Of  death  had  turned,   and  she  with  them 

Yet  longer   could  abide. 
He  felt  his  bosom  thrill 
With  joy,  for  the   wife  and  mother  still 
Her  place  in   their  happy  home   would  fill ; 
And  his  heart  sent  up  its  tribute   of  praise 
To   God,  for  the  lengthening  of  her  days. 


AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Mud,   mud,    and   a  shallow  stream  and  small. 

So  sluggish  it  hardly  moves  at  all 

Where  steeple-bushes  stand  stiff  and  bare, 

But  gurgles  a  little  just  out  there 

By  the  oil-nut,  where  it  trickles  down 

Over  the   stones  and  the  oak  leaves  brown, 

Down  to  the  mosses  so  green  below; 

But  here  you  can  scarcely  hear  it   flow; 

It  halts  in  ev'ry  hollow  and  track, 

And  the  mud  is  soft  and  deep  and  black. 

Ah,  that  was  a  month  ago !   now  look ! 
The  halting  stream  is  almost  a  brook, 
And  the  mud  is  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
For  the  clear  rill  flows  o'er  grasses  green. 
Now  look  acrain !   and  what  have  vou  found? 
Sweefc  white  violets  blooming  around ; 
Fair  and  sweet  in  each  hollow  and  track, 

79 


80  AN  AFTERTnOUGUT. 

And   sweet  and  pure  where  tlie  mire  was  black. 

O,  little  3^011  thouglit,  a  montli  ago, 

That   these  fragrant  treasures  here  would  blow ! 

Well  I   places  of  a  similar  kind, 

In  our  lives,  we're  pretty  sure  to  find. 

We  look  at  the  mud  and  fret  and  sigh, 

No  good  can  we  see  ;   but,  by  and  by, 

If  we  can  wait — if  we  will  but  look. 

The  truth  shall  flow  like  a  limpid  brook. 

Yes,  if  we  look,  we  shall  surely  see 

The  grasses  bend  where  the  stream  runs  free; 

From  blackest  mire  we  may  gather  yet 

A  beautiful,  fragrant  violet. 


TO  WHITTIER  ON  HIS  SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY,  DEC.  17,  1877. 

The  poets  have  woven  thee  a  crown, 

Thy  praises  the  people  sing; 
May  I  bring  thee  from  thy  native  town, 

A  wild-flower  offerins:? 

A  few  green  ferns,  a  buttercup  bright, 

And  violets  blue  as  th'  skies, 
From   fields  where  the  "  Barefoot   Boy "    o^ice 
played, 

Methinks  thou  wilt  not  despise. 

O,  sweet  is  the  sound  of  th'  laughing  brook, 

And  the  whisper  of  the  breeze. 
And  carol  of  birds,  but  sweeter  far, 

Thy  melody  is  than  these. 

O,  grand  is  the  awful  thunder's  voice, 
Grand  is  the  boom  of  the  sea, 

81 


82  WHITTIER'S  BIETBDAY. 

But  not  less  grand  is  th'  voice  of  a  man 
Who  speaketh  for  liberty. 

As  pure  as  the  calla's  waxen  cup, 

Is  the  record  of  thy  years ; 
And  a  calm,  unshaken  trust  in  God, 

On  every  page  appears. 

And  old  Pentiicket  may  well  be  proud  ' 

Of  her  noble-hearted  son, 
And  add  her  humble  offering, 

To  the  garlands  thou  hast  won. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  YEAR. 

The  few  remaining  moments 
Of  til'  year  are  going  fast, 

'Tis  meet  to  pause  and  ponder 
Upon  its  moments  past, 

And  backward  o'er  our  pathway, 
A  searching  look  to   cast. 

This  year  has  not  much  differed 

From  other  happy  years,  • 

We've  had  no  great  affliction. 
And  it  to  me   appears. 

We've  had  a  year  of  sunshine. 
Few  troubles  and  few  tears. 

Our  God  has  sent  us  blessing's 

Unnumbered,   ev'ry  day ; 
His   hand   has  gently  held   us. 

Nor  suffered  us  to   stray 


83 


84      TUE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE   YEAB. 

Far  into  sin,  but  led  us 
To  trust  Him  day  by  day. 

Our  home   lias   not  been  entered 
By  death,  we   all  are  here  ; 

Our  children   have  been  healthy 
Throughout  the  present  year ; 

And  you,  dear  wife,  my  helpmeet ! 
Have  filled  our  home  with   cheer. 

"We've  had  onr  little  trials. 

Each   day  has  brought  its  care; 

Sometimes  we've  been  impatient, 
Forgotten  to  forbear; 

Of  murmuring  and  fretting, 
I  know  I've  done  my  share. 

Sometimes  we've  spoken  harshly 
Words  we  should  not  have  said. 

And  afterward  repented, 
And  tears  of  sorrow  shed  ; 

But  each  has  each  forgiven, 
All  unkind  words  are  dead. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE   YEAR.  '     85 

AVe've  oft  neoiected  duty, 

And  oft  unfaithful  been, 
Our  hearts  like   untilled  gardens, 

Are  full  of  weeds  within. 
But  Jesus'  blood  can  cleanse   us 

From  all  indwelling  sin. 

And  now  we'll  kneel  together, 

To  him   our  sins  will  tell ; 
We'll  thank  God  for  His  goodness, 

He  hath  done  all  things  well. 
The   old  year  is  departing, 

Farewell,  old  year,  farewell ! 


THANKS. 

To  my  Sabbath-school  class  for  a  silver  butter-dish,  Jan.,  1876. 

This  silver  gift  has  spoken 
Your  kind  regard  for  me, 

I  thank  you  for  the  token 
Of  friendship ;  it  will  be 
A  magic  glass,  in  which  my  class 
I  evermore  shall  see. 

Eight  animated  faces. 

As  yet  untouched  by  care, 

And  many  winning  graces, 
And  aspirations  fair, 
Hearts  true  and  pure,  all  these  I'm  sure, 
I  find  reflected  there. 

And  mirrored  in  it  plainly. 
Can  I  refuse  to  see 


THANKS.  87 

The  truths  (I  hope  not  vainly), 
You've  oft  rehearsed  to  me  ? 
O,  may  my  life  with  deeds  be  rife, 
That  shall  with  them  agree. 


IN  OCTOBER. 

The  morning  air  is  sweet, 

And  with  melody  replete ; 
The  chirp  of  cricket,  hum  of  bee. 
The  cheerful  song  of  chickadee. 
The  low  of  kine  upon    the  ridge. 
The  softened  rumbling  of  the  bridge, 
The  distant  engine's  whistle  shrill, 
That  wakes  the  echoes  of  the  hill, 
The  shouts  of  schoolboys  far  away, 
The  bell  that  calls  them  from  their  play, 
The  pleasant  rustling  of  the  leaves 
In  arbors,  where  the  wild  grape  weaves 
A  tangled  roof  of  fruit  and  vine ; 
The  zephyrs  sighing  through  the  pine. 
The  tinkling  where  the  waters  meet. 
Unite  in  harmony  complete. 

88 


IN  OCTOBER.  89 

Clear  is  the  soft  blue  sky, 

Save  where,  in  the  east,  there  lie 

Thin  clouds,  the  dainty  veil  of  white 

liOst  off  by  Summer  in  her  flight. 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  from  chilling  breath 

Of  Autumn,  whispering  of  death. 

She  fled,  and  as  she  swiftly  passed. 

Her  mantle  on  the  trees  she  cast, 

And,  as  Elijah's  mantle,  fraught 

With  power,  to  Elisha  brought 

His  spirit  doubled,  so  hers  came. 

And  set  the  forests  all  aflame 

With  gorgeous  tints,  and  now  they   blaze 

As  though  condensed  were  all  the  rays 

Of  sunshine,  that  to  June  were  giv'n. 

And  through  the  trees  sent  back  to  heav'n. 

But  listen  !    what  is  that  ? 

That  shivering  rat-tat-tat, 
That  rustling  full  of  pathos   wild. 
As  the  sad  sobbings  of  a  child 
Who  yearns  for  words  of  tenderness, 


90  IN  OCTOBER. 

So  oft  denied  the  motherless? 

See  !   yonder  elm  has  loosed  its  hold 

Upon  its  ripened  leaves  of  gold, 

And  cast  them  as  a  poet  strows 

His  golden  thoughts.     A  light  wind  blows 

The  quivering  leaves  which  moan  and  cry, 

As  in  the  air  they  whirl  and  fly. 

Pause,  tremble,  flutter  and  descend. 

While  through  bare  boughs  the  soft  winds  send 

A  prelude  to  what  is  to  be. 

When  wailing  tempests  strip  each  tree. 

And  do  you  question  whence 

Cometh  the  sweet  influence 
That  permeates  all  things,  as   dew 
Invisibly  steals  in  and  through 
The  thirsty  leaf,  the  wilting  flow'r? 
It  is  the  tranquilizing  pow'r 
Of  Summer  over  Autumn   shed, 
Like  that  which  long  survives  the  dead. 
And  when  our  dear   ones   from   us   go, 
Alleviates  the  bitter  woe 


IW  OCTOBER.  91 

That  else  would  crush  us.     They  are  not; 
Yet  from  the  world,  death  cannot  blot 
Their  influence,  and  mem'ry  still. 
With  their  sweet  presence  seems  to  fill 
Our  homes,  as  summer  now  pervades 
Hills,  valleys,  fields,  and  forest  glades. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEA. 

I  sit  within  a  shady  nook, 
And  listen  to  the  shallow  brook 

That  slowly  ripples  by, 
It  faintly  tinkles  at  my  feet, 
A  song  with  gladsome  sonnds  replete, 
Nor  breathes  a  pensive  sigh ; 
But  I  long,   I  long  to  hear  the    song 
Of  the   mighty  waves  which  roll  along 
The  Atlantic    shore  ; — the  awful  crash 
Of  breakers  that  foam  and  roar  and  dasli 
The  song  of  the  restless,  heaving  sea. 
Is  the  grandest  of  all  songs  to  me. 

I  hear  the  whisper  of  the   breeze, 
That  lightly  through  o'erarching  trees. 

Sends  music  soft  and  low; 
I  hear  the  joyous  caroling 
Of  birds  that  make   the   wild-wood  ring, 

Their  songs  are   sweet,  I  know; 

92 


TUE  SONG   OF  THE  SEA.  93 

But  O,  I  long  for  the  solemn  song 
Of  surging  billows,  which  break  along 
The  Atlantic  shore; — the  thunder   deep, 
Of  rock-met  surges,  that   wildly  leap 
High  into   air.     O,   dear  unto  me, 
Is  the  ceaseless  moan  of  the  rolling  sea. 


IF  IN  THE   SUMMER  I  SHOULD  DIE. 

If  in  the  summer  I  should  die, 
When   shrouded  for  the  grave  I  lie, 
O  gather  from  some   quiet  dell 
The  sweet  wild  flowers  I  love  so  well, 
The  ferns  and  vines  and  mosses  green, 
And  place   them   my  cold  hands  between  ; 
Their  loveliness  I  shall  not  see. 
Their  fragrance  will  not  waken  me. 
But  to  the  living  they  will  say, 
"  Although  we  perish  and   decay, 
When   God  shall  call  us  from  the  skies, 
We  from  the  dust  sliall   quickly  rise 
To  blossom  in  some  quiet  dell. 
Forever  with  the  Lord  to  dwell." 


94 


DECORATION  DAY. 

[Soug  and  Response.] 

This  is  a  day  of  peace  ! 
Let  party  hatred  cease, 

And  bitter  strife. 
Let  Peace  her  scepter  sway ! 
Throughout  our  land  to-day, 
May  pride  he  swept  away 

And  love  be  rife. 

Response — 

Tliis  day  shall  party  wrangling  cease; 
To-day,  our  watchword  shall  be  Peace. 

Our  nation  will  to-day, 
A  floral  tribute  lay 

On  each  low  grave. 
Of  those  who  fought  so  well, 
Ilebellious  foes  to   quell, 

9& 


96  BECOBATION  BAY. 

Who  bravely  fought,  but  fell, 
Our  land  to  save. 

Response — 

We  decorate  each  soldier's  grave, 
Who  gave  his  life  our  land  to  save. 

They  fought  for  liberty  ! 
What  the  result  would  be 

They  could  not  see. 
They  died,  but  not  in  vain, 
Their  death  was  freedom's  gain, 
For,  broken  is  the  chain 

Of  slavery. 

Response — 

Our  comrades,  dying,  could  not  see, 
Which  side  would  gain  the  victory. 

Long  may  our  banner  float 
O'er  graves  near  and  remote, 

Where  rest  the  brave  ; 
And  while  of  them  we  sing, 


DECOBATION  DAT.  97 

Our  grateful  offering 
Of  garlands  bright,  we  bring 
For  every  grave. 

Response — 

And  as  we  deck  the  soldier's  grave, 
We  pray,  may  God  the  Union  save. 


A  KEE,PSAKE. 

To  Miss  M.  E.  N. 

I  have  among  my  keepsakes, 

A  little  gift  of  hair, 
All  deftly  wound  and  woven 

Into  leaves  and  blossoms  fair; 
The  words  "  My  Class "  are  written, 

One  word  on  either  side 
Of  th'  knot  of  rosy  ribbon. 

With  which  the  flowers  are  tied. 

My  class !   for  which  I  deem  it 

A  treasure  fair  to  own, 
For  that  I  highly  prize  it. 

But  'tis  not  for  that  alone. 
This  precious  gift  of  flowers, 

Most  lovingly  I  hold. 
For,  here  the  friend  who  made  it, 

I  shall  never  more  behold. 


96 


A   KEEPSAKE.  99 

With  slender,  wasted  fingers, 

And  failing  strength  she  wrouglit ; 
Ah  I    who  knows  but  Death's  message 

Was  the  sooner  to  her  brought 
Because  of  this  ?   Oh,  sadly 

I  gaze  on  it  to-day, 
And  fast  my  tears  are  falling, 

For  the  girl  who  passed  away. 

She  and  her  sister,  often. 

Together  came  to  read 
With  me,  of  Bunyan's  Pilgrim, 

Or  the  valiant  word  and  deed 
Of  knights  of  good  King  Arthur, 

And  many  poems  sweet ; — 
Her  sister,  in  the  twilight, 

Now,  alone,  comes  up  the  street. 

Wild  birds  are  sweetly  warbling, 

Among  the  forest  trees  ; 
We  used   to   sing  together. 

With   her  hands  upon  the  keys ; 


100  A  KEEPSAKE. 

Her  cheeks  the  warm  blood  flushing, 
Methinks  I  see  her  now, 

Her  eyes  so  brightly  beaming, 
And  dark  ringlets  on  her  brow. 

I  miss  her,  but  in  heaven 

I  hope   again  to  see 
The  friend,  whose   wasted  fingers 

Made  this  Christmas  gift  for  me. 
And  heaven  will  be  the  dearer. 

If,  at  its  pearly  gate. 
To  greet  me  at  my  coming, 

She  will  watch  for  me,  and  wait. 


A  FAREWELL. 

Presented  to  Dea.  and  Mrs.  J.  D.  jr.,  on  the  death  of  their 
daughter,  Grace  Mabel,  who  died  April  8,  1878,  aged  six  years, 
eight  months. 

Weary  so  soon  ?   poor  little  one ! 
Her  tender  feet  had  just  begun 

Life's  pleasant  paths  to   tread. 
Weary !    an  angel  brought  relief 
To  her,  but  filled  our  hearts  with  grief; 

Our  darling  child  is  dead. 

God  knows  it  all.     His  ways  are  best, 
The   soul,   in  trusting  Him,    is   blest ; 

The   wounded,  bleeding  heart 
His  love  can  heal, — but  yet,  to-day, 
Our  tears  must  fall,   and  lips  will  say, 

'Tis  hard  with  her   to  part. 


101 


102  A  FAREWELL. 

And  3"et  we  must !    Dear  little   Grace ! 
Her   soul  has  found  its  resting-place, 

God  doeth  all  things  well. 
We  fold  her  hands  across  her  breast, 
And  lay  the  dear  form  down  to  rest, 

Farewell,  sweet  child,  farewell. 


THE  MESSAGE. 

Did  you  call  me?   Was  I  dreaming?   It  was  long 

before  daybreak, 
In    the    stillness   of   tlie    morning,    ere    the    robins 

were  awake. 

I  was  sleeping,  soundly  sleeping,  when  your  ear- 
nest,  pleading  call, 

'Woke  me,  coming  through  the  silence,  though  I 
heard  no  sound   at  all. 

Not  a    syllable  was    uttered,  and    you    called   me 

not  by  name. 
But  I  waited  for   the   message,  and    from   you   to 

me  it  came. 

As  the   permeating   sunsliine    of    a  clear    October 

day, 
Wraps   the    earth   in    mellow   glory,   driving   chilly 

mists  away, 


103 


104  THE  MESSAGK 

Till  the  violets  of  springtime  bloom  again  beside 

the  rill, 
So    your   silent,   unseen   message    did    its    mission 

sweet  fulfil. 

All  the  chilly  apprehensions  vanished  quickly  out 

of  sight. 
And    the    happy  thoughts    upspringing,  blossomed 

welcome  to  the  light. 


"O' 


As  the  trav'ler  passing  onward  in  the  last  days 
of  July, 

By  its  own  delightful  fragrance,  knows  the  ground- 
nut vine  is  nigh. 

So  I  knew  that  you  were  near  me,  near  in  spirit, 

near  in  thought, 
By  the    pleasant,   mystic  perfume  of   the    message 

to  me  brought; 

And  I   knew    that   when  I    met    you,    you    would 

greet  me  with  a  smile. 
And  my  heart   would   beat   more    lightly,    for    the 

harbinger,  meanwhile. 


OVER  HIS  NARROW  BED. 

Song. 

Over  his  narrow  bed 

Wintry  winds  are  sweeping, 
Over  the  new-made   grave 

Where  my  boy  is  sleeping. 
Cease,  then,  ye  cruel   winds ! 

Cease  your  doleful  sighing, 
Blow  softly  o'er  the  grave. 

Where  my  boy  is  lying. 

No  longer  can   I  bear 

Your  dirge,   wild  and  dreary; 
Deep  is  his  grave  and  cold, 

I  am   sad   and  weary ; 
O,   then  ye  wintry  winds ! 

Cease  your  dismal  crying, 
Make  not  more   dark  tlie  grave 

Wliere  my  boy  is  lying. 


8 


10.-. 


WHEN  THE  NODDING  LILIES 
BLOSSOM. 

Where  the  hill  slopes  to   the  river, 

Tall  and  stately,  in  the  grass, 
Grow  the  pleasant,  nodding   lilies. 

You  can  see  them,  as  you  pass 
At  a  distance,  by  the  gleaming, 

As  the  breezes  sink  and  swell. 
By  the  gleaming  in  the   sunlight, 

Of  each  swaying,  golden  bell. 

You  have  heard  the  bells  a-chiming 
In  some  far-off  city  tow'r? 

Have  you  heard   the   sweeter  music 
Which  accompanies  this  flow'r, 

As  it  vibrates,  nods  and  trembles 
On  its  slender,  graceful  stem. 


ins 


WHEN  THE  NOBBING  LILIES  BLOSSOM.       107 

As  it  swings  among  the  grasses, 
Like  a  precious  diadem? 

No  ?   then  close  your  eyes  and  listen ! 

Let  your  inmost  senses  drink 
All  the  trilling,  tuneful  sweetness, 

Of  yon  merry  bobolink ! 
O,  you  hear  that  song,  my  farmer, 

All  the  busy  haying  time, 
And  these  lilies  wave  and  quiver 

To  his  mellow,  rippling  chime. 

You  remember  how  we  wandered 

Round  the  hill  one  sunny  day. 
By  the  barley,  through  the  red-top, 

Picking  lilies  on  the  way? 
How  the  river  Avavelets  sparkled, 

How  the   birds  sang  out  their  joy  ! 
And  beside    us,  birds-nest  hunting. 

Trudged  a  little  barefoot   boy. 


108       WHEN  THE  NODDING  LILIES  BLOSSOM. 

All!   if  sometime  in  the  future, 

Death  should  take  me  from   you,  then. 
When  the  nodding  lilies  blossom, 

You  will  gather  them  again; 
Just  a  few,  because  I  loved  them 

In  the  happy,  bygone  days. 
When  we  walked  in  peace  together. 

In  life's  fair,  sequestered  ways. 


A  REPLY. 

To  Mrs.  L.  M.  D. 

My  lily  was  a  simple  gift,  yet  glad 

Am  I  that  with  it  you  were  pleased.     You  speak 

Of  memories  that  shall  make  glad  my  heart 

When  I  am  old ;  the  thought  of  deeds  well  done. 

Alas :    I  fear  it  will  not  be  ;    for,  deeds 

That  I  should  do,  are   often  left  undone. 

And  when  I  would  do  good,  some  evil  thought. 

Perchance  of  self-sufficiency,   or  fear 

Of  misconstruction,  from  the  good  detracts, 

Or  hinders  it.     But  howsoe'er  may  seem 

My  own  life  held  in  retrospect,  I  know 

Tlie  memory  of  you,  my  aged  friend, 

And  your  long  life   of  loving  useftdness 

Within  the   church,  or  at  your  own  fireside, 

(So  free  from  stain,  that  in  the  dozen  years 

That  I  have  been  your  neighbor,  not  one  word. 

Condemning  act  of  yours,   has  reached  my  ear). 


110  A  REPLY. 

Will  be  to  me  a  flow'r  more  fair  and  sweet, 
Than  all  the  fairest  lilies  of  the   earth. 
When  dies  the  flow'r,  its  perfume  also  dies ; 
But  fragrance   of  a  life  like  jours,  will  live, 
How  long,  eternity  alone  can  tell. 


LINES. 

In  memory  of  Daisy  Patterson. 

Through  all  the  land,  on  charger  fleet, 

There  rides  an  archer  bold, 
He  pauses  not  for  wind  or  sleet, 

He  minds  not  heat  or   cold. 
He  gallops  all  the  dreary  night, 

Adown  the  world's  highway. 
Alike  to  him  the  dark  and  light, 

As  speeds  he  on  his  way. 

With  steady  hand  his  bow  he  bends. 

With  aim  unerring,  dart 
Tlie  poisoned  arrows,  which  he  sends 

Directly  to  the  heart. 
Nor  turns  aside  this  warrior  bold 

For  kings  his  charger  pale. 
He  recks  not  of  the  rich  man's  gold. 

He  heeds  not  sorrow's  wail. 


112  LlIfES. 

A  flow'r  among  us  fair  and  sweet, 

A    few  short  summers  blushed, 
But  onward  came  the  pale  horse  fleet, 

His  foot  our  Daisy  crushed. 
Our  hearts  are  sad.     Our  eyes  will  fill 

With  tears,  as  we  deplore 
The  loss  of  one,  who,  cold  and  still, 

Sleeps  now,  to  wake  no  more. 

No  more?    But  there  will  come  a  day, 

When  Death  shall  conquered  be, 
When  he  no  more  the  world's  highway 

Will  ride,  so  bold  and  free. 
Sleeps?    But  the  spirit  goes  to  God; 

Our  faith  must  look  above 
The  gloomy  grave,  the  frozen  sod, 

To  God,  for  He  is  love. 

Not  always  will  the  grave  retain 
Its  victims,  they  will  rise. 

When  Christ  to  earth  shall  come  again 
Triumphant,  from  the  skies. 


LINES.  113 

The  Nazarene  victorious 

Once  died,  but  lives  again, 
He'll  vanquish  Death,  and,  glorious 

In  majesty,  shall  reign. 


A  MEDLEY. 

strung  together  from  Longfellow's  Table  of  Contents. 

"  The  Evening  Star  "  is  shining- 
Over  "The  Hemlock  Tree," 
"  The  Spanish  Jew "  is  telling 
"  The  Secret  of  the    Sea," 
To  "  Hawthorne"  wise,  who  listens 

Within  "The  Wayside  Inn," 
While  mournfully  are  tolling 
The  solemn  "  Bells  of  Lynn." 

"  The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls,"  and  "  Flowers  " 

Are  blooming  far  below, 
"  The  Birds  of  Passage  "  are  singing 

While  "The  Four  Winds"  softly  blow, 
"  To  a  Driving  Cloud  "  above  them, 
"  The  Song  of  the  Silent  Land," 
And  "Victor  Galbraith  "  kindles 
A  "  Driftwood  Fire "  on  the  sand. 

114  * 


A   MEDLEY.  115 

Beside  "The  Open  Window," 
"  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  "  stands, 
Humming  "A  Christmas  Carol," 

A  "Sonnet"  in  his  hands. 
And  "  Blind  Bartimeus  "  mutters, 
"  It  is  not  always  May ; " 
While  "Th'  Village  Blacksmith"  slumbers 

Serenely  o'er  the  way. 

"  King  Christian  "  tells  the  story 

Of  "  Ride  of  Paul  Revere," 
"  The  Norman  Baron  "  whispers 

In  "  Lady  Wentworth's  "  ear, 
"  The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill," 

They  cut  "  Two  Locks  of  Hair," 
"  The  Wraith  of  Odin  "  tells  it, 

The  "  Landlord  "  cries  "  Beware  !  " 

"The  Quadroon  Girl"  now  enters, 
"The  Ghosts"  are  chased  awa3^ 
"Miles  Standish"  says  "To-morrow" 
Will  be  "The  Wedding  Day." 


116  A   MEDLEY. 

"  The   Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs  "  has  stopped ! 

'Tis  "Daybreak"  now  I  fear, 
"A  Gleam  of  Sunshine"  greets  us, 
"The  Witnesses"  are  here. 

"  Evangeline  !  "    why  wilt  thou 
In  "  Maidenhood  "  repine  ? 
I  offer  "  Love  and  Friendship," 
O,  let  me  call  thee  mine ! 
"Priscilla"  turn  "  Th'  Spinning  Wheel," 
You'll  be  "  John  Alden's  wife ;  " 
We'll  smoke  "  The  Peace  PijDe  "  now,  friends, 
And  sing  "  The  Psalm  of  Life." 


LINES. 

Written  for  the  fifth  anniversary  of  the  marriage  of  Rev.  and 
Mrs.  H.  A.  Stetson,  Oct.  18th,  1881. 

Life  is  an  unknown  region,  over  which 

In  quick  succession,  sons  of  Adam  pass, 

Nor  e'er  their  steps  retrace,  however  dark 

The  course  ahead,  or  bright  may  seem  the  path 

Once  trodden.     Some,  in  passing,  find  their  way 

B}'  pleasant  streams,  through  fertile  fields  and  fair, 

Some  climb  the  rugged  steep,  and  walk  where  yawns 

Tlie  frightful  chasm,  oft  stumbling  as  they  go. 

And  some  through  swamps  and  forests  crawl,  beset 

By  beasts  and  reptiles  loathsome.     Others  press 

O'er  barren,  scorching  sands.     But,  whoso  will 

Some  good  may  find,  an  Elim  by  the  way, 

Or  Bethel,  like  the  patriarch  of  old, 

A  priceless  treasure  for  the  mind  to  hold. 


117 


118  LINES. 

Five  years  of  close  companionship  may  now 
Oiir  pastor  and  his  wife  review.     The}^  may, 
Perchance,    have    passed    through     some     ravines, 

where  light 
But  faintly  struggled  through  o'er-arching  gloom, 
And    distant    thunders  growled;   but,  in  the  main, 
Have  traversed  goodly  land.     And  now,    we   trust 
In  pastures  green  they  will  be  led  by  Him 
For  whom  they  toil.     May  fruits  abundant  fill 
The    hands    that    sow    the    seed;   and    when    they 

reach 
The  journey's  end,  may  life  eternal  be 
Their  portion,  joys  transcending  these,  and  bliss 
Unspeakable.     May  they  together  sing 
In  heav'n  the  glories  of  their  Priest  and  King. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  O'ER  THE  WAY. 

When  the  toiler's  task  is  ended, 

And  the  twilight  cool  and  gray, 
On  him  like  a  benediction 

Falls,  at  closing  of  the  day, 
Out  of  doors,  in  groups  or  singly, 

Sit  we,  looking  at  the  west, 
With  its  pink  and  golden  splendor, 

Chatting,  musing,  all  at  rest. 

The  oriole,  thrush  and  redbreast 

Now  are  out  of  sight  and  still. 
But  the  frogs  rehearse  their  music 

To  a  distant  whip-po-will. 
And  the  swallows  fast  are  flying 

(Jolly  little  fellows  they), 
Chattering,  they  dart  and  flutter 

Round  the  old  house  o'er  the  way. 


119 


120  THE  OLD  HOUSE  O'ER  THE  WAY, 

But  the  old  house !    Have  you  seen  it, 

Picturesque,  and  quaint  and  gra}', 
Built  when  red  men  came  a-pro\vling 

Down  the  famous  twelve-rod  way? 
Strongly  built  of  brick  from  England, 

White  oak  timber,  iron  bolts, 
But  a  little  from  the  river 

Rocks  and  ferry,  then  called  Holt's. 

Years  before,  the  stalwart  fathers 

Ordered,  "a  highway  be  laid 
From  the  country  bridge  to  ferry, 

Down  the  valley,"  and  'twas  made. 
Rough  the  cart-path,  wild  the  forest, 

And  adown  the  Merrimac, 
Swiftly  came  the  birch-bark,  bearing 

Savacre  on  the  white  man's  track. 


o 


But  the  paleface  grew  and  flourished, 
All  undaunted,  went  not  hence, 

But  the  Garrison  erected. 
For  a  shelter  and  defense. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  O'ER  THE  WAY.  121 

Thick  the  walls,  and  dark  the  cellar, 
Narrow  windings  underground, 

Where  could  linger  the  faint-hearted, 

WJiile  the  Indian  whooped  around. 

Two  large  chimneys,  just  in  fashion, 

Closets,  port-holes,  attics  drear, 
Sj)acious  rooms,  where  met  the  Quakers 

In  convention,  year  by  year, 
O,  the  house  was  well  defended ! 

Wives  and  children  there   could   rest, 
And  the  white  man  grew  and  prospered 

While  the  red  man  traveled  west. 

But  the  mansion  changed  its  owners; 

Generations  came  and  went ; 
Echoed  there  the  voice  of  sadness, 

Joy,  love,  woe  and  discontent. 
O,  tlie  many,  many  footsteps 

Echoing  along  the  floor ! 
There,  to  woo  her  backward  lover. 

Went  the  proud  Miss  Livermore. 


122  THE  OLD  HOUSE  O'EE  THE  WAY. 

Made  by  man,  yet  man  outlasting, 

(If  a  man's  life  measured  be, 
By  his  days  on  earth,  so  fleeting), 

Old  and  quaint,  yet  fair  to  see. 
Lofty  elms  reach  far  above  it. 

Nests  are  hidden  by  the  leaves. 
Smooth  the  greensward,  sweet  the  lilacs. 

Climbing  up  to  kiss  the  eaves. 

And  that  willow,  neat  and  glossy, 

For  a  century  or  more. 
Has  its  yellow  catkins  scattered 

Lavishly,  before  the  door  ; 
'Twas  a  walking  stick,  and  planted 

In  the  twilight,  by  a  beau. 
As  a  token  to  the  lady 

Whom  he  courted,  long  ago. 

Could  it  speak,  perchance  'twould  tell  us 
Some  love  tales  not  quite  so  old ! 

But  the  sweet  words,  'neath  its  branches 
Whispered,  by  it  are  not  told. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  O'ER  THE  WAY.  123 

Green  the  meadow  in  the  background, 
Where  the  flow'rs  all  summer  blow, 

Green  the  hillside  just  beyond  it, 
Where  the  plums  and  berries  grow. 

O,  we  love  the  ancient  beauty 

Of  the  place  across  the  way. 
And  we  often  gaze  upon  it 

At  the  closing  of  the  day, 
Till  the  bats  come  with  the  darkness, 

Till  the  night  is  growing  chill. 
And  the  birds  are  all  a-sleeping, 

Save  the  plaintive  whip-po-will. 


THE  LEGACY 

"  I  am  going  to  make  my  will,"  you  said. 

With   a  laugh  and  jest  I  turned  aside ; 
"  O,  remember  me  in  your  will,  my  friend, 

And  give  me  your  old  straw  hat,"   I  cried. 

Light  were   the  words,  but  a  quiver  of  pain 

I  felt  as  I  quickly  walked  away, 
And  I  thought  the  gift  I  should  most  desire, 

Were  you  to  be   called  from  this  world  to-day- 

I    should  wish  with   others  the   hope  to  share 
That  Christ  had  welcomed  you  as  his  own — 

But  I  said  the  gift  I  should  most  desire 
To  hold  and  cherish  as  mine  alone, 

Is  this — the  assurance  that  naught  unkind 
Had  resting-place  in  your  thoughts  of  me. 

So  I   could  know  that  between   us  was  peace, 
Should  1  live  your  pale,  dead  face    to  see. 

124 


THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

"  Bring  in  my  little  ones,  tliat  I  may  look 
Upon  them,  once  again  before  I  die. 
Death  is  not  far  away.     A  few  more   da^^s 
And  I  shall  be  at  rest,  and  free  from  pain, 
And  they,  my  children,  will  be  motherless. 
Too  3'oung  are  they  to  realize  the  loss 
Of  mother-love,  but  tliere  will  come  a  time. 
When  all  in  vain,  their  aching  hearts  will  cry 
For  mother,  mother-love  and  sympathy 
Which  she  alone  can  give.     O  little  girls ! 
How  can  I  leave  you  in  this  cruel  world. 
Where  fierce  temptations  oft  beset;   where  life 
Is  one    long  struggle  'twixt  the    right  and  wrong, 
And  oft  the  wrong  prevails.     I  hope   that  tliey, 
My  darlings  will  be   valiant  in   the  fight, 
While  leaning  on   the  Everlasting  Arm, 
Which  has  been  my  support.     The  Arm  that  will 
Uphold  me,   while  I  take  my  last,  last  luok 

125 


126  THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

Of  their  dear  faces,  press  a  last  fond  kiss 
Upon  the  lips  that  plaintively  will   call, 
Dear  mamma,   mamma,   when  I  shall  be   dead. 

0  God !   forsake  me   not  in  this  dark  hour. 

But   some    sweet    promise    through   tlie    deepening 

gloom 
Like   sunshine   send,  lest  I,  at  thy  decree 
Should   murmur,  beiug  weak.     Thou   wilt  forgive 
The  yearning  of  the   mother-heart,  thac  clings 
So   fondly  to   these   helpless  ones,  for   Thou 
Art  merciful.     Compassionate   Thou  art 
And  dost  not  willingly  afflict.     To    Thee 

1  leave  my  children.     Thou  for  them   wilt  care. 
With  love  surpassing  mine,   and  knowing   this, 

I   can  lie   down  in  peace." 

Each  child  was  led 
Into  the  room,  and  placed  upon  the  bed. 
And  closely  folded  in  a  long  embrace, 
Kissed  many  times,  but  only  this  she  said, 
"  I   want  you  always  to  be  good."     They  came. 
Light-hearted,  smiling,  pleased  again    to   be 
Li   mother's  room;    "Is  mamma  almost  well?" 


THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL.  127 

They  went  with  quiv'ring  lips,  "Must  mamma  die?" 
Their  father,  keeping  down   his  anguish,  soothed 
With  loving  words,  their  hearts,  and  they,  engaged 
Ere  long  in   childish  sports,  their  grief  forgot. 

This  painful  trial  o'er,  the  mother  lay 
With  closed  eyes,  too  weak  to  think,  and  save 
The  quick  chest-heaving,  motionless.     Her  soul 
Communing  with  its  God  found  peace.     The  sun 
Low-sinking  in  the  west,  shone  in  and  touched 
Her  hands,  as  if  to  place  within,  a  ray 
Of  glory  from  the  world  of  light  unseen. 
From  Jenness  beach,  the   dear  familiar   sound 
Of  rising  and  retreating  waves,   came  like 
The  solemn  chanting  of  an  evening  prayer, 
And  lulled  her  into  rest. 

A  few  short  days 
She  lingered,  bade  adieu  to  other  friends. 
And  last,   to  him,   lier  husband.     Suddenly 
A  radiance   o'erspread  her  features  thin, 
And  looking  upward,  she  exclaimed,  "I  see 
The  angels,  they  are  coming ! "     Then  she  died. 


128  THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

And  in  the  3"ard  near  1)}'  they  made  a  grave, 
And  hiid  her  down  to  rest ;    and  ere  two  years 
Had  come  and  gone,  was  made  another  grave 
Beside  the  first.     The  husband  by  his  wife 
Lay  sleeping,  and, — the  children  were  alone. 
Alone !    and  from  their  happy  home,  were  led 
To  walk  in  diverse  paths  not  always  smooth, 
But  leading  oft  o'er  jagged  rocks,  and  steep 
And  slippery ;    and  oft   the  hand  out-stretched 
To  grasp  for  aid  some  wayside  branch,  would  find 
Itself  thorn-wounded,  and  witli  briars   pierced. 
But  now  and  then,  a  friendly  voice  would  speak 
Words  of  encouragement  and  sympathy; 
Then  easy  was  the  way,  and  firm  the  step. 
Bat  when  Temptation  whispered,    "  Come  witli  me. 
This  way  is  pleasant,  walk  therein,"  a  voice, 
A  tender,  jDleading  voice,  would  seem  to  say, 
"I  want  3^ou  always  to  be  good."     Then,  like 
The  lightning's  flash,  would  come  a  memory 
Of  the  sick  mother's  parting  kiss,  and  then 
To  heav'n  for  help,  would  rise  the  swift  appeal. 
And  strength  to  saj",  "  I  will  not  walk  therein," 


THE   GUARDIAN  ANGEL.  129 

Would  giv^en  be.     As  when,  among  the  hills 

A  strain  of  music  clear  and  sweet,  grows  faint. 

And  fainter,  till   it  dies,  these  words  would  seem 

To  rise  and  float  hito   the  far  beyond ; 

''  Thy   angel  mother  guards  thee.     God  has   heard 

Her  pray'rs.     Trust    thou    in    Him.     She    beckons 

thee, 
O   turn  not  from   the   way."     And   then    the    patli 
Led  tlirough  deliglitful  meadows,  glorious 
With  light   celestial,   and  the  heart  grew  brave. 


^q 


^5 


70 
o 


